Keep a watch on the target.

Until Tucker lifted the order, the shepherd would be on close guard—watching his target for any aggressive movements or hostile actions, judging the tone of voice, listening for the cock of a hammer or the slip of a blade from a sheath. It was a broad tool, but Tucker trusted the shepherd’s instinct. If his target made the wrong move, Kane would immediately attack.

“What was that all about with Misha?” Anya whispered, drawing back his attention.

“He wanted more money. To stay silent.”

“And you paid him?” Bukolov asked, aghast.

“It was easier than killing him. And besides, we’re leaving now anyway.”

Tucker stood up and gestured for the others to remain hidden. He crossed to the lighted cabin and knocked on the door.

It opened a few moments later. Yellow light spilled forth, framing a young woman in denim overalls. She was barely five feet tall, with black hair trimmed in a pixie haircut.

Tucker tightened his grip on the Magnum concealed in his pocket, bracing himself for any attack.

“You are Bartok?” she asked in a surprisingly bold voice for such a small body.

Bartok?

He was momentarily confused until he remembered Harper’s mention of a code name.

“Yes, I’m Bartok.”

“I am Elena. How many come with you on plane? Costs three thousand rubles per passenger.”

She certainly didn’t waste any time getting down to business.

“Four and a dog.”

“Dog cost more.”

“Why?”

“He crap . . . I must clean up, no?”

Tucker wasn’t about to argue—not with this little firebrand. She sort of scared him. “Fine.”

“Get others,” she ordered him. “The plane is prepared. We are ready to leave.”

With that, she stalked toward the dock area.

Tucker waved the others out of hiding and hurried to keep up with Elena. She had stopped beside one of the planes. With one leg leaning on a float, she unlatched the side door and lowered it like a ramp onto the dock’s walkway.

The twin-engine seaplane, painted azure, stretched about seventy feet long, with gull wings and oval stabilizers at the tail. The fuselage was deep chested, with a bulbous cockpit.

“I don’t recognize this model,” he said as he joined her.

She explained proudly, her hands on her hips. “This is a Beriev Be-6. Your NATO called it Madge. Built the same year Stalin died.”

“That’s sixty years ago,” Anya noted, worried.

“Fifty-nine,” Elena shot back, offended. “She is old, but a very tough bird. Well maintained. Board now.”

No one dared disobey.

Once everyone was aboard, Elena unhooked the lines from their cleats, hopped inside, and pulled the door closed behind her with a resounding slam. She hurried forward to the cockpit.

“Sit down!” she yelled back. “Seat belts!”

And that was the extent of their preflight safety briefing.

Bukolov and Anya were buckled into the bench along the right side of the fuselage, Utkin and Tucker on the left. Kane curled up between Tucker’s feet, never letting his guard down.

The plane began drifting sideways from the dock.

Bukolov called over, “Tucker, you seem to have a proclivity for unorthodox methods of travel.”

“One of my many idiosyncrasies.”

“Then I assume we will be traveling to the United States aboard a zeppelin.”

“Let’s leave it as a surprise,” he replied.

From the cockpit came a series of beeps and buzzes, accompanied by a short curse from Elena—then the sound of a fist striking something solid. Suddenly, the engines roared to life, rumbling the fuselage.

“Here we go!” Elena called.

The plane accelerated out of the cove and into the inlet. Moments later they were airborne.

7:44 P.M.

“Bartok!” Elena yelled once they’d reached cruising altitude. “You come up here!”

Tucker unbuckled his seat belt, scooted around Kane, and ducked into the cockpit. He knelt beside her seat. The copilot seat was empty. Through the windscreen, he saw only blackness.

“Now tell me the destination. The person on phone said southeast. Said you would have the destination once in air.”

Tucker gave her the coordinates, which she jotted on her kneeboard.

After a few fast calculations, she said, “Fifty minutes. You know what we are looking for? A signal of some kind, da? The Caspian is big, especially at night.”

“Once we are there, I’ll let you know.”

Tucker returned to the cabin. The roar of the engines had faded to a low drone. Aside from the occasional lurch as Elena hit a pocket of turbulence, the ride was smooth.

Now is as good a time as any.

Tucker stood between the two benches. “It is time we have a family meeting.”

“A what?” Bukolov asked.

Tucker dove in. “Every step of the way, General Kharzin has been waiting for us. Until now I had no idea how he was doing it.”

Tucker paused to look at each of them in turn.

Anya shifted under his scrutiny. “And? What are you saying, Tucker?”

He drew the signal generator from his pocket and held it up for everyone to see.

“What is that?” Bukolov asked, motioning for a closer look.

Tucker turned to Utkin. “Would you like to explain?”

The young man shrugged, shook his head.

“It’s a signal generator—a homing beacon. It was attached to the Olga’s antenna feed. Since we left Volgograd it’s been regularly sending out a signal until I disarmed it a few minutes ago. A signal that Kharzin has been listening for.”

“You think one of us put it there?” Utkin asked.

“Yes.”

“It could have been Misha,” Anya offered. “He would know how to attach the device. It was his submarine.”

“No, Misha brought this to me.”

Anya’s eyes grew rounder. “Tucker, you’re scaring me. What do you know?”

Tucker turned to Utkin. “Is that your bag under your seat?”

“Yes.”

“Pull it out.”

“Okay . . . why?”

“Pull it out.”

Utkin did so.

“Show me your playing cards.”

“My what? I don’t see why—”

“Show me.”

Having noted the hardness of Tucker’s tone, Kane stood up and fixed his gaze on Utkin.

“Tucker, my friend, what is going on? I do not understand, but fine, I will show you.”

He unzipped his duffel and began rummaging around. After a few seconds, he froze, glanced up at Tucker, and pulled out his two boxes of playing cards. One empty, one full. Utkin held up the empty one.

Tucker read the understanding in the young man’s eyes.

“But it . . . it is not mine,” Utkin stammered.

Tucker grabbed the box, slid the signal generator into it, and resealed the flap. It was a perfect fit. Earlier this morning, during his search of the group’s belongings, he’d found the empty box of playing cards in the young man’s duffel.

Utkin continued shaking his head. “No, no, that is not mine.”

Anya covered her mouth.

“Is it true?” asked Bukolov. “Tucker, is this true?”

“Ask him.”

Bukolov had paled with shock. “Utkin—after all our time together, you would do this? Why? Is this tied to that past gambling problem of yours? I thought you had stopped.”

Shame blushed Utkin’s face to a dark crimson. “No! This is all a mistake!” He turned to Tucker, his eyes hopeless with despair. “What will you do to me?”

Before he could respond, Anya blurted out, “Tucker, do not kill him, please. He made a mistake. Perhaps someone forced him to do it. Remember, I know these people. Perhaps they blackmailed him. Isn’t that right, Utkin? You had no choice. Tucker, he had no choice.”

Tucker looked to Bukolov. “Doctor, how do you vote?”

Bukolov shook his head. Without looking at his lab assistant, he waved a dismissive hand. “I do not care. He is dead to me either way.”

At this, Utkin broke down. He curled himself into a ball, his head touching his knees, and started sobbing.